


just come here (and we could settle down)

by potionapproachings



Series: The Domestic Life [3]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Fourth Shinobi War, lol I write the things I would like to see manifested, perhaps slight canon divergences in the little details, this is the world that lives in my head rent-free
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28753173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potionapproachings/pseuds/potionapproachings
Summary: “Maa sensei, I’m not the one who burned eggs, out of all the things in the world that can be burned,” Kakashi says as he turns around in Iruka’s arms and maneuvers them a little ways from the stove, pressing them tightly together, their bodies slotting together like perfectly carved puzzle pieces.Iruka harrumphs, pressing his nose against the scar on Kakashi’s cheek, lips moving against the bare skin of Kakashi’s face as he grumbles lightly, “That was once. Only once, Kakashi.”
Relationships: Hatake Kakashi/Umino Iruka, Umino Iruka & Uzumaki Naruto
Series: The Domestic Life [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2113026
Comments: 18
Kudos: 105





	just come here (and we could settle down)

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday Javier!

The sounds of pots and pans clacking greet Iruka as he exits from the master bathroom, the background humming of a low baritone voice mixing in with the bustle of kitchen sounds making him hold back a grin as he selectively browses through the small pile of housewear yukata on his side of the wide, vintage tansu resting near the back ends of the main bedroom.

He settles on the clover green, softened with age and holding the subtle scent of the dried blades of lemongrass he always keeps tucked between his clothes.

Breathing deeply and running lightly callused hands through his dark tresses, Iruka makes his way to the centre of the mild cacophony that has been quietly raging since he’s come home after a considerably long day of shadowing the Academy’s soon-to-be retiring headmaster on the more tedious administrative duties concerning the school’s budgeting and hashing out the details of proper policy for planning inter-village exchange programs, the potential for a more integrated system of learning a very ripe possibility now, in the near aftermath of Konoha’s new era of peace.

He has been having other talks too - talks revolving around standardizing hard limits on the age for graduation and for advancement, especially for graduates aiming for the higher jounin and ANBU ranks, for providing procedural check-ins for students who have lost primary caregivers and reworking a proper support system to walk them through not only their more immediate physical and mental needs, but also the options they have after graduation, even if they ultimately decide the life of a shinobi is not the best fit for them.

Talks and discussions around building a system that does not throw mere children into the mouths of wolves as soon as they are able to comprehend that the lifeblood and survival of the village relies on the soul heavy duties of murder, espionage and deception.

Although his body is still shadowed by exhaustion and stiff from the strain of having been locked in one position for too-long periods of the day, Iruka feels a particular resolve take hold within the inner cavity of his chest, something that is firm in its strength and comfortable in its familiarity.

It’s the feeling he last felt what seems like multiple lifetimes ago now, when he looked into bright blue eyes shadowed with an abject loneliness, heard loud boasting that had cracked with a visceral desperation at their edges that - even when he had found himself caught in the middle of messy pranks on more than one occasion - had made his heart ache.

The need, the _feeling_ , that things must change, must be different, cannot continue in this way no longer. The feeling that a shift is imminent.

Maybe this is also part of what the Will of Fire is supposed to be, little consistent shifts away from the stone-cold traditions and mentalities that the older clans and elders continue to cling to - even when it sharpens their children to nothing more than finely tuned weapons, even when it crushes the humanity and light from its subjects, even when it pays back its dues in blood and honour shrouded in a facsimile of falsehood.

The last time this feeling came to him, Iruka had ended up adopting his son before the village had finished tearing its claws into his hurts and well trodden pain. This time, Iruka thinks he can maybe do more, make it so that no child, no orphan - in the entirety of Konoha’s blood soaked foundations if he has his way - has to go through what Naruto had gone through. What Sasuke had gone through. Hell, what _Kakashi_ had gone through. It is not a perfect road to rebuild something that feels corrupted and broken to its very core, but it is a start. And it feels like a mountaintop that is within his reach, a future he can imagine to its very minute details. It feels possible. A beginning to a new kind of legacy and a door that can perhaps open to better ones down the line.

A particularly loud clang breaks him from his thoughts, and Iruka turns his attention to the scene before him.

He has to bite back laughter as he watches Kakashi try to spoon out a medium-sized ladle out of the miso soup that is now delicately simmering in the saucepan.

“And people like to think that I’m a mess in the kitchen,” he laughs gently as he wraps one hand around the firm muscle of Kakashi’s abdomen and uses the other to nimbly scoop out theutensil, placing it neatly on the cutting board beside them.

Kakashi leans back against him and pouts dramatically, grey eyes wide and deceptively guileless - Iruka has to fight how his heart still jumpstarts at the amount of emotion Kakashi’s face conveys through _both_ eyes these days, and finds that he is not entirely as successful as he wishes to be - though there is a knowing twinkle that Iruka knows immediately to be wary of.

“Maa sensei, I’m not the one who burned _eggs_ , out of all the things in the world that can be burned,” Kakashi says as he turns around in Iruka’s arms and maneuvers them a little ways from the stove, pressing them tightly together, their bodies slotting in place like perfectly carved puzzle pieces.

Iruka harrumphs, pressing his nose against the scar on Kakashi’s cheek, lips moving against the bare skin of Kakashi’s face as he grumbles lightly, “That was once. Only once, Kakashi.”

“Because you’ve never tried to make eggs again, after that disaster of what we most certainly in good conscience cannot call a breakfast—“

“Hey! It may not seem like it, but eggs are hard to make! A lot of consideration has to go into determining the right temperature for scrambling, or boiling or making tamagoyaki, it’s not an everyman’s skill!”

Kakashi only laughs at him, and it takes all of Iruka’s might to keep the scowl on his face, because such carefree sounds from Kakashi are a treasure Iruka hoards carefully in his heart, the fine lines around his eyes crinkling elegantly and the tips of his canines peeking out from his mouth. It is a lovely sight. Though Kakashi haloed by happiness is always a lovely sight to Iruka.

Something must show on his face, because Kakashi’s chuckles peter out and his gaze roams steady across the planes of Iruka’s features, softening, softening, _softening_ some more until Iruka cannot stop the warm glow of his flush from slowly spreading, and this, _this,_ makes the beautiful bastard start in on his laughing again. Stupid Kakashi.

But then Kakashi moves slender fingers up Iruka’s torso, skimming carefully over his chest and neck, resting them high on the apples of his cheeks, and rubbing small circles over the edges of his scar. And Iruka can do nothing but melt into his touch, because Kakashi’s eyes are filled with such blatant adoration that Iruka’s heart feels raw from the million different subtleties of devotion that - despite the layers of masks that Kakashi is so used to wearing - is always plain as daybreak in the expressions Kakashi directs towards him.

They stand like that for some moments, intertwined and gently held, in the quiet ambience of their love.

⁂

“Are your hands feeling sensitive again?” Iruka asks later, much later, after they’ve eaten their dinner and are cuddled together underneath the kotatsu, holding steaming mugs of hōjicha wrapped in knitted, orange tea cozies.

Iruka still remembers Naruto’s proud grin as he presented the matching pairs of knitwear, messily wrapped, on a Father’s Day morning some years ago as the three of them ate breakfast in their pyjamas. There had been a lot of boisterous laughter that day, and even Kakashi couldn’t help fondly rustling Naruto’s wayward hair despite his protesting squawks. Iruka had pretended not to notice the sudden dampness in Naruto’s clear eyes after Iruka had hugged him tightly, whispering his thanks into one reddened ear.

(Even when Naruto’s away on a mission - like he is now - the Hatake compound still seems to reverberate with that loud laughter)

“Hmm,” Kakashi rumbles, taking a small sip from his cup before placing it on the tabletop and turning over to snuggle against Iruka’s throat. Iruka automatically draws him closer, abandoning his own tea beside Kakashi’s, and retrieves both of Kakashi’s hands to settle them gently against his chest, the band on his left ring finger glinting in the setting sun.

Kakashi splays his fingers wide over Iruka’s heart, his hums turning into content, grumbly sounds as he burrows even closer, like he wants them entangled so securely that they would be unable to extricate themselves from each other ever again.

Being Hokage exempts him from most active missions these days, but many years of fighting wars, surviving insurrections, and being ruthlessly used as Konoha’s war dog has left aftereffects that visit Kakashi in more ways than just nightmares. After all, channelling high concentrations of chakra into certain types of jutsu can cause physical effects on the user, and the Chidori is not free from this constraint.

While most people only notice the peeling of skin and the smoking that at times accompanies the use of Lightning Release, Iruka sees how, on some days - when the memories of the past are more vivid and the phantom pains from wounds that have healed a thousand times over are more stark - Kakashi needs Iruka to wrap medicined bandages beneath his black, fingerless gloves to prevent the shifting of the material from further over-sensitizing his skin.

On the very bad days (which seem to have lessened in number in these recent years), Iruka sees the shaking tremors that take ahold of Kakashi’s hands, uncontrollable to the point where he must gently but firmly maneuver Kakashi to lay across his lap and hold the cold compresses he keeps at the back of their freezer upon his palms until the trembling subsides.

Iruka thinks back to the slight jolt that shook Kakashi’s hands earlier in the day, while he was fishing for the ladle in the soup that had not even started to simmer in earnest yet, and bends down to press his lips lightly on a scarred eyelid. Kakashi makes a soft sound at the back of his throat and curls impossibly closer.

“It used to be worse,” he murmurs suddenly, his fanning breath inciting goosebumps across Iruka’s skin. “But it’s better now. Better with you.”

The warm feeling beneath Iruka's ribs expands - up until he feels the spread of Kakashi’s lips, knowing without opening his eyes that they are curved into a wicked grin, one that promises trouble and snark in equal measures. Kakashi, as always, does not disappoint.

“You always make everything better sensei,” he purrs, nibbling on the brown skin of a nearby, easily accessible clavicle and blinking his ridiculously long lashes in what he must think is a coy manner. The effect is more akin to the shining, bright stares of a baby cow, and Iruka wonders which Icha Icha scene he’s gathered inspiration from this time. “How about we—“

Iruka pinches his side, and Kakashi squeaks, the sound so ridiculous that it is Iruka’s turn to dissolve into breathless laughter. He hears muttered complaints, but ignores them, too busy snorting into the messy tufts of silver hair brushing against his chin.

He feels Kakashi move back slightly, and the weighty presence of his gaze settle heavily on him. Still, Iruka keeps his eyes closed, enjoying the last remnants of the sun’s warmth against his face, the reassuring nearness of his husband at his side.

Kakashi rubs their noses together and Iruka can’t stop how his face scrunches up in response. The way that particular masters hold similarities to their ninken, he thinks wryly.

“I’m serious, you know,” Kakashi says, voice soft as spring rain. “You make everything in my life better. I feel so lucky to be yours.”

Iruka swallows harshly, his heart feeling tender, almost flayed open from the calm intensity in those words. He opens his eyes half-mast, looks down to a face that beholds him as though he put every one of the stars within their places in the night sky.

“I know darling,” he whispers, drawing Kakashi up so he can kiss him, long and lingering. Kakashi’s lips part for him easily. “I know.”


End file.
